pornlets, reposted
Originally posted at the porn battle here [mine; light]
Huh. I thought I'd written more than four fics. All those false starts, I suppose. All these characters are well over the age of 18. Phew.
["Unification," Firefly, Mal/Kaylee, NC-17, fireworks (in which our heroes win the day).]
Unification
It's the first U-Day in the history of Mal that it's come to be evening and he's not yet found a tavern brawl to instigate. He blames Kaylee, who has a way of lookin' at a man wheedlin'-like and implying with her eyes that he can go fight-hunting all he wants but if he expects anything more than a goodnight kiss later on, he'd best keep his nose clean.
"Well, what would you suggest?" he asks, exasperated. "I ain't celebrating the Alliance and I ain't keeping my mouth shut, and we've been holed up on this planet for near a week."
"You could try using your powers for good instead of evil and open your mouth around my quim," Kaylee suggests, and makes it sound innocent as drinking booze and toasting freedom with a backhand to someone's jaw.
"I can hear fireworks," he says, changing the subject. "Alliance fireworks paid for with Alliance coin, celebrating Alliance values and..."
"Sure," Kaylee agrees, "but shiny." Her eyes widen into not-quite-pleading. More, intriguing. "We could go outside and watch."
"Can't you think of something less self-loathing for us to do?" He doesn't imagine those thoughts'll be very challenging for a bright gal like Kaylee, but he wants to hear it from her.
"Nothing's more distracting than engine maintenance," Kaylee tells him. "And well we're stuck aground we might as well."
He shrugs. There're worse things than watching Kaylee work, eyes intense and bright as she checks the tension in each lever, realigns the gear that's perpetually wobbly, and slicks the whole apparatus with grease. Doesn't pretend he knows what it all means, but it's Serenity and Kaylee's hands all over her. When she crawls into a tight space and Mal's confronted with her rear end, encased in loose coveralls, he's a notion he's less easily distracted than most men, but still not infallible.
"Hey," she says, without protest when he makes his interest known. "I thought you wanted me to keep this ship space-worthy."
"So I do. Some other time." He braces himself on a crossbeam and thrusts lightly against Kaylee. She thrusts back and crawls backwards between his legs. "Naw, keep working. I can keep myself busy."
"Can't think straight," she says. "I'll unscrew the wrong thing and she'll fall to pieces around us."
"Not arousing," Mal agrees. "Not normally." She is still on the floor, and is busily eying the button keeping his member inside his pants. It's about the only thing, this moment, that is. "Go ahead."
She does. She's sloppy and artless, which he likes, and wet and warm, which is more than a man can stand, and smiling broadly, which will just about break his heart if he doesn't climax first.
It's not the thing he'd wish for (not on U-Day, leastwise), not the thing he likes the most (and not all the coin in the 'verse could force a confession out of him), nor the thing Kaylee's best at (that Serenity's still flying is testimony to that), but when Kaylee's tongue finds a sweet spot, the rest of the 'verse blanks, the rumble of fireworks and the raw heat of a decade's bitterness antagonism, and he's just Kaylee's man, and she's just his gal, and they're alone for once on the boat they love best, and when he comes with half a laugh, half a groan, Mal's more than half-happy.
["Like Boy Scouts in the Dead of Winter," West Wing, Josh/Mandy, NC-17, wet]
convenient link to unabridged LJ post
["As A Favor for A Friend," Grey's Anatomy, Cristina/Derek, NC-17, forget. (These are my superpowers, hypnosis and sex.)]
As A Favor for A Friend
I am doing you a favor, Mer. Someday, you will realize that this is a favor, and you will thank me with chocolate and expensive bath toys. Admittedly, probably not tomorrow. But someday, we'll look back on this and cackle evilly together.
"Dr. Yang..."
"Cristina," she tells him, and carefully shuts the trailer door. "It'll be easier that way. Trust me, in five minutes, you won't remember anyhow."
He puts a hand on her wrist (preemptive strike, as she hasn't even touched him. Yet.) and says, "This is... a bad idea, probably."
She nods, agreeing. Pace and lead. "Very bad idea." Her hand curls around his wrist for good measure.
"There, is for example, Addison. My wife."
"You're married. You shouldn't be having sex."
"With an intern."
"Right, with an intern. They frown on that."
"And there's Burke. I think that Burke would... not be happy. If I had sex with you."
"If Burke found out that I had sex with you, Derek," (they're on a first-name basis now. Almost friends. Close enough for orgasms,) "he would kill you. Or me. Probably both."
"So it's not going to happen."
"It's going to happen," she tells him, and flicks him off her wrist and her shirt up over her head, unhooks her bra, and kisses him. Three seconds, tops. He makes a very bad attempt to push her away, which is thwarted when she hooks a leg around his waist and pulls him closer. She likes that the trailer's small. It makes it easier to squeeze and maneuver, to get him where she wants him, sitting on his bed with her in his lap. She's clinging to his neck. She's undone the button of her jeans. Just unzip me. I'll do the rest. He obliges, and he does look a little hypnotized, an inch or two from her face, like he's just waiting for her next direction. "Pants off," she says, and off they come. This is almost too easy.
"What are we doing again?" he asks, leaning back. She leans back with him, and, unbuttoning his shirt as carefully as possible given her strong desire to be done with the foreplay and get to the good parts.
"I'm going to give you such fantastic sex that you completely forget about Meredith. I am going to give you Cristina-orgasms, which are, I promise you, much more long-lasting, satisfying, and high in fiber than Meredith-orgasms. I will give you orgasms that make open-heart surgary feel like a nice, long stroll on the beach. But first, you're going to have to sit up so I can finish taking off your clothes."
Derek Shepherd isn't exactly bad in bed, thank God. She would so kick Meredith's ass if he were anything less than an 8; less than an 8 is not worth risking your career for; less than a 10 is kind of a toss-up. Burke is a 10. So is she. Meredith's probably a 9 when she makes an effort, and she probably always makes an effort for McDreamy. She hopes he makes an effort for Meredith, because he's not making one for her, and while there's nothing wrong with a man who lies back and enjoys a blowjob, especially when it's one of her blowjobs and she's putting a lot of effort into it, focused, careful, up his cock, teeth sheathed, down again, hand around his balls, a finger juuust inside his asshole, so that he won't freak out but will get a little buzzed, and up, licking as she goes, feeling for the slightest response, that feels good or enough now, geez. And she has to feel hard, because Derek is pretty much all non-verbal cues, a twitch of his leg, a grunt. Whatever. She rolls her eyes, because she's pretty sure they're at the part of the blowjob where his eyes are closed and he's not caring about anything but his dick. Sure enough, he comes, and she swallows hard and he comes harder, and gasps a little, short, breathy pants, and rolls himself up to a slouch. "Hey," he says, and reaches for her. She pulls away.
"Did it work?"
"No," he says, with the goddamn puppy-eyes that have turned Meredith's brilliant brain into after-school pudding. "But it was... very considerate of you to try."
["Moonlighting," Buffy: the Vampire Slayer, Buffy/Oz, NC-17, toast. (A long-time unexpected ordinary gig one night never.)]
Moonlighting
"Buffy?" he asks, without astonishment. She turns around slowly. No one says her name without baggage attached. Except -- she takes in a lanky frame, the tuft of black hair, spiced with white, the nerd-cool square black glasses, guitar pick dangling from stubby fingers, nails purple and neatly trimmed.
"Oz. I..." Never expected to see you again. "What the hell are you doing in L.A.?" Nice, Summers. Very friendly.
He nods toward the stage. "Got a gig."
She hadn't noticed the band, but now she sees that they are all, like Oz, skinny adults showing signs of age who play their instruments with surprising grace and the surety that, since they have become adults, maturity is now cool. Not that Buffy can argue; her undyed hair is tied back in a tight ponytail, and, too thin and prone to sensible shoes, she looks more like an aging riot grrl than the oldest Slayer in the world. First. Best. Her lines are still clean, her technique precise, and she's still mobile. There's no need to feel defensive about her record, even if Oz does say, "I heard you were dead."
"I was."
"You're surprisingly spry." He grins. "What brings you here?"
"Had a tip." She scans the club again, but if there's a vamp he's wise to the usual mistakes, which could be trouble.
"I'll let you work."
She nods, and is about to let him slip away again (Hey, Will, you'll never guess who I saw in America), but another night in the ruined Hyperion will make her barf. She reaches for Oz's arm. "Hey. Um, this is really awkward and all, but. Do you have a place I could crash? Just for one night. Um. Because my actual apartment is kind of in... another continent."
"You don't mind a mattress."
"I've seen worse."
"Me too." He touches his bracelets.
"Hey. Oh. I'm taking your bed, aren't I? God. Don't. All I need is a sleeping bag and a corner."
Oz nods. "No one would have to sleep on the floor," he says. "If you want."
"Oh." This is the best offer she's had in months. People who know her and her history are too complicated or are too savvy to want her, are her sworn enemies or friends she's sworn not to fuck. And while Oz never seemed her type -- wiry and witty when that was her job -- what did Buffy know about desire when she was eighteen? She didn't know that the thrill of the hunt, the ecstasy of moving into a vamp's space, the precision of penetration, was less than half anger, was hardly rage, was pure desire, funneled through her stake into a vamp's heart. She holds that fuel when she knocks on Oz's door. He steps aside to let her in with a wry grin and a bottle of cheap wine, which he pours into plastic cups. They knock them together carelessly.
Buffy sits on Oz's mattress, stained with soy sauce and semen, and drinks wine. She lowers herself tensely to the bed, letting a loose spring scratch her. She's itchy all over. When Oz sets aside his wine, she puts her arms around his neck to pull him down to her, opens her mouth wide and draws his tongue in, deep, straight to the core. Desire comes as an ache, yearning, a slow sprawl as she lets her legs spread wide, as Oz slowly, finally, slides a hand up her shirt. He unhooks her bra and finds a breast easily, circles her nipple till she can't help but buck against him, struggling to free some appendage so she can open his fly to work his dick. She feels towards his crotch and discovers the beginnings of an erection, which she can stroke through the fabric of his trousers when she remembers to feel anything except the seep of longing between her legs.
When Oz releases her mouth she realizes that the lump in her throat is a sob she's been holding in for years. She rocks her cloth-covered cunt against Oz's thigh, keens against his hairline. He rocks too, shifting his thigh so somehow the pressure's all just below her clit; she feels hollow and naked though she's clothed, and the alcohol is settling languor into her veins. She reaches for Oz's zipper but he touches her hand no.
"Mrr?"
He shows her, tufts of -- hair? -- fur on his wrist. Shrugs. "Some things trigger."
She laughs around another sob. "We're a mess, aren't we?"
"Hey." He cups her face in one hand, her mons in the other, still through leather, and his thumb works her clit. "We made it, didn't we? We're here."
Huh. I thought I'd written more than four fics. All those false starts, I suppose. All these characters are well over the age of 18. Phew.
["Unification," Firefly, Mal/Kaylee, NC-17, fireworks (in which our heroes win the day).]
Unification
It's the first U-Day in the history of Mal that it's come to be evening and he's not yet found a tavern brawl to instigate. He blames Kaylee, who has a way of lookin' at a man wheedlin'-like and implying with her eyes that he can go fight-hunting all he wants but if he expects anything more than a goodnight kiss later on, he'd best keep his nose clean.
"Well, what would you suggest?" he asks, exasperated. "I ain't celebrating the Alliance and I ain't keeping my mouth shut, and we've been holed up on this planet for near a week."
"You could try using your powers for good instead of evil and open your mouth around my quim," Kaylee suggests, and makes it sound innocent as drinking booze and toasting freedom with a backhand to someone's jaw.
"I can hear fireworks," he says, changing the subject. "Alliance fireworks paid for with Alliance coin, celebrating Alliance values and..."
"Sure," Kaylee agrees, "but shiny." Her eyes widen into not-quite-pleading. More, intriguing. "We could go outside and watch."
"Can't you think of something less self-loathing for us to do?" He doesn't imagine those thoughts'll be very challenging for a bright gal like Kaylee, but he wants to hear it from her.
"Nothing's more distracting than engine maintenance," Kaylee tells him. "And well we're stuck aground we might as well."
He shrugs. There're worse things than watching Kaylee work, eyes intense and bright as she checks the tension in each lever, realigns the gear that's perpetually wobbly, and slicks the whole apparatus with grease. Doesn't pretend he knows what it all means, but it's Serenity and Kaylee's hands all over her. When she crawls into a tight space and Mal's confronted with her rear end, encased in loose coveralls, he's a notion he's less easily distracted than most men, but still not infallible.
"Hey," she says, without protest when he makes his interest known. "I thought you wanted me to keep this ship space-worthy."
"So I do. Some other time." He braces himself on a crossbeam and thrusts lightly against Kaylee. She thrusts back and crawls backwards between his legs. "Naw, keep working. I can keep myself busy."
"Can't think straight," she says. "I'll unscrew the wrong thing and she'll fall to pieces around us."
"Not arousing," Mal agrees. "Not normally." She is still on the floor, and is busily eying the button keeping his member inside his pants. It's about the only thing, this moment, that is. "Go ahead."
She does. She's sloppy and artless, which he likes, and wet and warm, which is more than a man can stand, and smiling broadly, which will just about break his heart if he doesn't climax first.
It's not the thing he'd wish for (not on U-Day, leastwise), not the thing he likes the most (and not all the coin in the 'verse could force a confession out of him), nor the thing Kaylee's best at (that Serenity's still flying is testimony to that), but when Kaylee's tongue finds a sweet spot, the rest of the 'verse blanks, the rumble of fireworks and the raw heat of a decade's bitterness antagonism, and he's just Kaylee's man, and she's just his gal, and they're alone for once on the boat they love best, and when he comes with half a laugh, half a groan, Mal's more than half-happy.
["Like Boy Scouts in the Dead of Winter," West Wing, Josh/Mandy, NC-17, wet]
convenient link to unabridged LJ post
["As A Favor for A Friend," Grey's Anatomy, Cristina/Derek, NC-17, forget. (These are my superpowers, hypnosis and sex.)]
As A Favor for A Friend
I am doing you a favor, Mer. Someday, you will realize that this is a favor, and you will thank me with chocolate and expensive bath toys. Admittedly, probably not tomorrow. But someday, we'll look back on this and cackle evilly together.
"Dr. Yang..."
"Cristina," she tells him, and carefully shuts the trailer door. "It'll be easier that way. Trust me, in five minutes, you won't remember anyhow."
He puts a hand on her wrist (preemptive strike, as she hasn't even touched him. Yet.) and says, "This is... a bad idea, probably."
She nods, agreeing. Pace and lead. "Very bad idea." Her hand curls around his wrist for good measure.
"There, is for example, Addison. My wife."
"You're married. You shouldn't be having sex."
"With an intern."
"Right, with an intern. They frown on that."
"And there's Burke. I think that Burke would... not be happy. If I had sex with you."
"If Burke found out that I had sex with you, Derek," (they're on a first-name basis now. Almost friends. Close enough for orgasms,) "he would kill you. Or me. Probably both."
"So it's not going to happen."
"It's going to happen," she tells him, and flicks him off her wrist and her shirt up over her head, unhooks her bra, and kisses him. Three seconds, tops. He makes a very bad attempt to push her away, which is thwarted when she hooks a leg around his waist and pulls him closer. She likes that the trailer's small. It makes it easier to squeeze and maneuver, to get him where she wants him, sitting on his bed with her in his lap. She's clinging to his neck. She's undone the button of her jeans. Just unzip me. I'll do the rest. He obliges, and he does look a little hypnotized, an inch or two from her face, like he's just waiting for her next direction. "Pants off," she says, and off they come. This is almost too easy.
"What are we doing again?" he asks, leaning back. She leans back with him, and, unbuttoning his shirt as carefully as possible given her strong desire to be done with the foreplay and get to the good parts.
"I'm going to give you such fantastic sex that you completely forget about Meredith. I am going to give you Cristina-orgasms, which are, I promise you, much more long-lasting, satisfying, and high in fiber than Meredith-orgasms. I will give you orgasms that make open-heart surgary feel like a nice, long stroll on the beach. But first, you're going to have to sit up so I can finish taking off your clothes."
Derek Shepherd isn't exactly bad in bed, thank God. She would so kick Meredith's ass if he were anything less than an 8; less than an 8 is not worth risking your career for; less than a 10 is kind of a toss-up. Burke is a 10. So is she. Meredith's probably a 9 when she makes an effort, and she probably always makes an effort for McDreamy. She hopes he makes an effort for Meredith, because he's not making one for her, and while there's nothing wrong with a man who lies back and enjoys a blowjob, especially when it's one of her blowjobs and she's putting a lot of effort into it, focused, careful, up his cock, teeth sheathed, down again, hand around his balls, a finger juuust inside his asshole, so that he won't freak out but will get a little buzzed, and up, licking as she goes, feeling for the slightest response, that feels good or enough now, geez. And she has to feel hard, because Derek is pretty much all non-verbal cues, a twitch of his leg, a grunt. Whatever. She rolls her eyes, because she's pretty sure they're at the part of the blowjob where his eyes are closed and he's not caring about anything but his dick. Sure enough, he comes, and she swallows hard and he comes harder, and gasps a little, short, breathy pants, and rolls himself up to a slouch. "Hey," he says, and reaches for her. She pulls away.
"Did it work?"
"No," he says, with the goddamn puppy-eyes that have turned Meredith's brilliant brain into after-school pudding. "But it was... very considerate of you to try."
["Moonlighting," Buffy: the Vampire Slayer, Buffy/Oz, NC-17, toast. (A long-time unexpected ordinary gig one night never.)]
Moonlighting
"Buffy?" he asks, without astonishment. She turns around slowly. No one says her name without baggage attached. Except -- she takes in a lanky frame, the tuft of black hair, spiced with white, the nerd-cool square black glasses, guitar pick dangling from stubby fingers, nails purple and neatly trimmed.
"Oz. I..." Never expected to see you again. "What the hell are you doing in L.A.?" Nice, Summers. Very friendly.
He nods toward the stage. "Got a gig."
She hadn't noticed the band, but now she sees that they are all, like Oz, skinny adults showing signs of age who play their instruments with surprising grace and the surety that, since they have become adults, maturity is now cool. Not that Buffy can argue; her undyed hair is tied back in a tight ponytail, and, too thin and prone to sensible shoes, she looks more like an aging riot grrl than the oldest Slayer in the world. First. Best. Her lines are still clean, her technique precise, and she's still mobile. There's no need to feel defensive about her record, even if Oz does say, "I heard you were dead."
"I was."
"You're surprisingly spry." He grins. "What brings you here?"
"Had a tip." She scans the club again, but if there's a vamp he's wise to the usual mistakes, which could be trouble.
"I'll let you work."
She nods, and is about to let him slip away again (Hey, Will, you'll never guess who I saw in America), but another night in the ruined Hyperion will make her barf. She reaches for Oz's arm. "Hey. Um, this is really awkward and all, but. Do you have a place I could crash? Just for one night. Um. Because my actual apartment is kind of in... another continent."
"You don't mind a mattress."
"I've seen worse."
"Me too." He touches his bracelets.
"Hey. Oh. I'm taking your bed, aren't I? God. Don't. All I need is a sleeping bag and a corner."
Oz nods. "No one would have to sleep on the floor," he says. "If you want."
"Oh." This is the best offer she's had in months. People who know her and her history are too complicated or are too savvy to want her, are her sworn enemies or friends she's sworn not to fuck. And while Oz never seemed her type -- wiry and witty when that was her job -- what did Buffy know about desire when she was eighteen? She didn't know that the thrill of the hunt, the ecstasy of moving into a vamp's space, the precision of penetration, was less than half anger, was hardly rage, was pure desire, funneled through her stake into a vamp's heart. She holds that fuel when she knocks on Oz's door. He steps aside to let her in with a wry grin and a bottle of cheap wine, which he pours into plastic cups. They knock them together carelessly.
Buffy sits on Oz's mattress, stained with soy sauce and semen, and drinks wine. She lowers herself tensely to the bed, letting a loose spring scratch her. She's itchy all over. When Oz sets aside his wine, she puts her arms around his neck to pull him down to her, opens her mouth wide and draws his tongue in, deep, straight to the core. Desire comes as an ache, yearning, a slow sprawl as she lets her legs spread wide, as Oz slowly, finally, slides a hand up her shirt. He unhooks her bra and finds a breast easily, circles her nipple till she can't help but buck against him, struggling to free some appendage so she can open his fly to work his dick. She feels towards his crotch and discovers the beginnings of an erection, which she can stroke through the fabric of his trousers when she remembers to feel anything except the seep of longing between her legs.
When Oz releases her mouth she realizes that the lump in her throat is a sob she's been holding in for years. She rocks her cloth-covered cunt against Oz's thigh, keens against his hairline. He rocks too, shifting his thigh so somehow the pressure's all just below her clit; she feels hollow and naked though she's clothed, and the alcohol is settling languor into her veins. She reaches for Oz's zipper but he touches her hand no.
"Mrr?"
He shows her, tufts of -- hair? -- fur on his wrist. Shrugs. "Some things trigger."
She laughs around another sob. "We're a mess, aren't we?"
"Hey." He cups her face in one hand, her mons in the other, still through leather, and his thumb works her clit. "We made it, didn't we? We're here."